MAM’SELLE 

DELPHINE 


BY 

HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS 



Mam’selle Delphine 


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'Dedication 

** It is not incumbent upon thee to finish the work; 
but thou must not therefiore cease from striving 
diligent 

—THE TALMUD 


CjT^O a little Georgia working girl, who at 
home by day and by night fought through 
the great war with courage and devotion 
and became in the end casualty’’, this Christ- 
mas story is dedicated, and given to help her 
carry on. Her battle is now with humanity’s 
dread enemy, the White Plague, and it is the 
Author’s belief that the generous men and superb 
women of the South, through purchase of the 
story, will arm her with the means necessary to 
fight her way back to health. 


The book is hers ; its message theirs, the end 
is with God. 


GROVE PARK INN 

ASHEVILLE, N. C. 


THE AUTHOR 


0)CI,A622588 






Mam’selle Delphine 


T^ENDERED from the French into English the 
inscription carved over the quaint double 
gateway was: 

‘‘Stranger, they who rest within these 
walls, God has sanctified by the touch of 
his angel Death. Pass not His sentinel if 
it so be ye harbor aught of malice, lust, re- 
sentment or envy; for these be the world's 
four curses and this is holy ground." 

I copied it into my note book. But the sen- 
tinel ! 

The word above was written vidette. Beyond 
the gate were roses and green widespreading 
trees, the white of giant magnolia blooms and 
of many sepulchres. And somewhere the South- 
ern thrush intensified the silence with his rap- 
turous song, but of sentinel, guard or watchman 
there was none; only a cross of stone standing 
between the two entrances. 

This, then, was the sentinel. Besides, there 
is a Spanish proverb which reads, “It is a reck- 
less man that will bear a curse past a cross." 
Well, I am a just man, I hope, and tho my re- 
ligion is of the subconscious, laid up for and in 
me by many good men and women long dead, 
it had sufficed to ward off the curses. I bore 
no malice or resentment. I envied no man. I 


was pure in my desires. Naught remained but 
to salute the world's undying sentinel as all 
good men must ; and so I bent the knee with a 
childish prayer on my lips. 

The sentinel replied, “peace be with you!" in 
words carved at the foot of the cross, so small 
only the kneeling might notice. 

And thus I entered among those whom God 
had sanctified by touch of his angel Death ; and 
peace descended on me ; the peace not alone of 
quietude but of loveliness: — slender monu- 
ments rising from piled up flowers; sepulchres 
softened by the wizardry of moss and lichen: 
slabs sunk in the verdure of the soil; here a 
cross and there a crown ; and dreamless angels 
that brooded above the dreamless dead or 
pointed a hand to Heaven as their wings un- 
folded. 

Roses there were by every pathway; and a 
myriad of birds, butterflies and bees flashed 
across the vistas or balanced in the sunlight. 
And over the sod and stones the ivy ran to climb 
the trees, and offer their streamers to the va- 
grant zephyrs. Peace? Life and the world 
were behind! 

But presently as I wandered, steeping sense 
and soul in beauty, I met a new note, — a wom- 
an's wordless song, a lullaby; and came where 
one knelt, digging in the soil. The face she lifted 
as my shadow crossed her hand was serenely 
lovely and her voice, as she bade me good 
morning, was full of tones that lingered from 
her melody. 


— 6 — 


“ Tis the grave of Mam'selle Delphine/' 
she said, simply, seeing that I had removed my 
hat and paused to gaze on the slab set as a 
jewel in a frame of jade. .‘‘She was my friend. 
I am planting the iris, — her flower.” I noticed 
then that the marble bore no legend or date, — 
just the name “Mam’selle Delphine.” 

“Monsieur will rest? The days are yet 
warm,” she added, seeing my interest. I took 
the seat she pointed out, an antique iron settee, 
and thanked her. “ Tis the fleur-de-lys,” she 
continued, holding up a bulb. “Mam'selle's 
ring bore the flower and there was a picture on 
her wall — a banner and a shield.” 

“But, is it not unusual? — Just a name? — ” 
The woman shook her head vigorously. She 
had all the expressive gestures of the French 
and many of the pretty tricks of pose and of 
feature that characterize the best of the Creoles, 
only it was evident from her simplicity and 
freedom that she was not of these. But it was 
soon equally evident that her refinement was 
perfect. 

“She would have it so. Monsieur ; — it was 
her will. And one dares not disobey the dying. 
But it was like her, — of a simplicity, perfect. 
No boasting, no display, — ^just an elegance!” 

“You knew her well, then.” 

“Ah, did I not! None better. She was 
my bonne amie. But for her, — ” she paused, a 
slight flush on the dark oval face, her eyes cast 
down. Presently she looked up, and the light 
danced in them. 


— 7 — 


‘^Monsieur is — a traveller? No? An art- 
ist perhaps/' She glanced at my rather large 
note book. 

'‘A traveller — yes. An artist — no. But some- 
times a maker of little books." 

''Ah! And would Monsieur make a book 
about Mam'selle? But no! There is too much; 
— and too little. And who knows?" 

"You might tell me what she was like, — 
if you mind not to talk to a stranger. See — " 
and I smiled my best smile, — "my hair is quite 
gray!" She laughed softly, looking up from 
her task without lifting her head, and a shy 
little smile bent the perfect mouth. 

"Ah yes; but it is quite beautiful. Mon- 
sieur, the gray hair. But not so beautiful as 
Mam'selle's nor so much. She was like this. 
Monsieur, — little, like a child woman ; and 
wrinkled like a fairy grown old. But her eyes! 
Ah, the light was there, — ^the soul light. Dr. 
Marshall says some souls live in the back of the 
heads of people; and some in their poor stom- 
achs and their light is feeble in the eyes, like • 
candles behind the curtains. And some live in 
the front of their heads and look always from 
the two windows there; and the light in these 
windows, it is radiant. It was so with Mam'selle. 
Believe me. Monsieur, when her soul went back 
to the good God, the light died in her eyes as 
altar candles blown out by a breeze. And her 
voice! Listen?" She made a gesture to in- 
clude the whole environment. The blended 
sounds came to us filtered through screens of 

— 8 — 


moss and ivy and was as the murmur of a far- 
off waterfall, deepened and lightened as the 
winds waxed or waned. “It was like that; — a 
part of God's unending music, and peace and 
gentleness. You ask of her family",— --again 
the nod and confiding smile. “Well, there was 
the tiny folding table of mahogany, the two 
worn rockers, the bed between high-up carved 
posts, {he marble top washstand, the lustre 
gone, — all born before Mam'selle and full of the 
scars of many journeys. These were her fam- 
ily, Monsieur; her poor relations, she called 
them. Indeed, but believe me. Monsieur, there 
was something of her in each, — something that 
whispered her name, if you listened. A faded 
rug or so, and lace curtains, well darned, — 
these and a hundred little things that filled the 
right spot, — these were all ! But all were of a 
perfection in their neatness. Monsieur," and 
the wise little face sought mine but half as- 
sured, “might it not be that the mystery of a 
woman's room is always the woman herself? 
But I put it badly. This; — when Mam'selle's 
room was empty, she was still there. But if 
another came when the room was empty Mam'- 
selle was not there." 

“The soul, perhaps! who knows?" 

“Yes, that is it. The soul of Mam'selle 
filled her room to overflowing. It was always 
there, something intimate, that clung and re- 
mained where her hands had touched or her 
feet had pressed. Dr. Marshall said the whole 
scene had been removed from over in the 

— 9 — 


Colonial section, and she wore it as a setting. 
And it was true, though the way had been 
longer for poor Mam'selle than across the city. 
Did I reveal to you the room was in the poorest 
quarter? No? Well, it was. God, how for- 
lorn that street!'’ She shivered over a memory. 

‘‘Could you not tell me the story of Mam'- 
selle Delphine?" 

“I? No! No! No! She taught me by night 
and by day. She was my good friend. But no 
one is good enough to have known all of Mam'- 
selle!" 

“You might tell me something of it?" The 
young woman smiled and shook her head. But 
presently she lifted her face with the birdlike 
quickness that was evidently a characteristic, — 
the instantaneous response to a thought. 

“I may indeed tell you one thing. Monsieur, 
to reveal her goodness. Be careful to remem- 
ber I received it from her. It was a memorable 
time, — the Christmas eve when snow fell and 
lay on the ground. A very wicked woman lay in 
the room next to Mam'selle's, — ^just a bed was 
there and one poor chair. No fire, no cover, no 
light, no food! The wretched woman’s last 
money had gone for this shelter of one week for 
herself and the helpless baby. I say wicked. 
Monsieur, because she had not waited to be a 
bride, and her lover had been hurried away to 
the Philippines with his company before the day 
she set had come. But yet she was a girl only, 
and the home back in Bayou Teche was closed to 
her. Let the good God judge. But if wicked, she 
was still brave, and could sew the delicate 

— 10 -- 


stitches of all her people. Only, the cold had 
stiffened her fingers and the baby could only be 
warmed against her body, for the wraps, she 
had none! Mam^selle, who worshipped purity 
and cleanliness and whose room was as a 
shrine, told me that for hours she resisted the 
wailing of the babe heard through the thin wall 
of lathe and paper, as it rose and fell with the 
little one's strength. And she resisted, too, the 
little mother's voice that mingled with baby's 
wail, and went and stood by the window looking 
down into the poor street, now for the first time 
in the lives of children grown to be men and 
women, white and pure with the baptism of the 
snow. Here and there a man hurried along 
dreaming of the coming day, the birthday of the 
dear Christ-child at the foot of the centuries. 
And from other quarters less poor echoed the 
shrilling of horns and the sharp staccato of the 
big crackers. Snow! Visions came to Mam'- 
selle of her childhood in a grandmother's Vir- 
ginia home. Faces, then hidden away from all 
but memory, rose between dear Mam'selle's 
shining eyes and the soft shadows without. 
And voices! The prattle of children, the carols 
and the hushabyes of motherhood. These last 
continued when the visions and the other voices 
faded back into the past and she turned her 
brave eyes again into the prisonhouse of her 
old age. Ah, but you should have heard Mam'- 
selle tell it. She realized then that it was a real 
mother, and not her own slave mammy, croon- 
ing the sweet Southern song of childhood over 

— 11 — 


a restless babe. It was this had driven her to 
the window, resisting. Now it drew her back. 
She lifted from her table the worn Bible and 
her glasses set in the slender gold. It was 
Mam’selle's daily habit, Monsieur, to take her 
guidance from the page that offered when her 
gentle spirit was oppressed; and the Book had 
never failed her. Had she been of the woods 
and fields, she would, in such hours, have come 
here into the large silences to listen. But the 
page was her only refuge ; and she told me that 
these lines met her gaze : 

‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one 
of the least of these my brethren, ye have 
done it unto me.^' 

“You may believe. Monsieur, she closed 
the book reverently and passed out into the 
carpetless hall without hesitating and entered 
to the wretched woman.'* 

“In the room, poorer, much poorer than 
hers, the little girl-woman sat with head bowed 
above the child in her lap. Her mother-song 
hushed as Mam'selle entered. The face lifted, 
Mam'selle told me, was tear-stained and hag- 
gard. Youth there was left, only in the full 
volume of shining black hair loosened around 
her head and in the yet clear complexion; but 
in the eyes and drawn features was a threat of 
that which comes with a cheerless age. Ah, 
but she had suffered! And the desolation of 
the woman overflowed her room." 

“ Ts it ill?' Mam'selle's voice was of the 
gentlest I As the summer wind among the pines. 

— 12 — 


The hand she laid, not oh the babe's head, but 
on the mother's, was as the same soft wind 
against a fevered cheek. The little mother 
could but nod and be dumb; but presently 
under the infinite caress of the hand, her story 
came ; — certain garments. Monsieur, finished 
and ready for delivery, lay on the tumbled bed ; 
she had planned to take them, child in arms, 
and collect the promised pay in time to supply 
her Wyants, — but now the child was ill. She 
thrust out her feet." 

“ ‘Will Madam please observe the 
wretched shoes?' Surely ‘wretched' never 
served a better use! And outside was the 
snow. The shoes were fragments, only, tied 
on with cotton strips. The stockings, they were 
visible everywhere; and through them, the 
feet too." 

“Here was the tragedy! The rest, which 
Mam'selle had guessed, and from which her 
clean soul had, all unknowing, shrunk, was as 
yet a guess only. The hand on the bended 
head continued in its slow caress." 

“‘The father? — Is he living?' Ah but 
Mam'selle knew how to be delicate!" 

“ ‘Yes, Madam!' said the poor girl. Then, 
after a pause, Mam'selle again : — " 

“ ‘Where?'" 

“ ‘In the Philippines, Madam!' " 

“‘Ah!' The hand pressed suddenly on 
the girl's head. And then : ‘A soldier. And — 
you loved him?' " 


— 13 — 


‘Yes, oh! Yes! — But he was — taken 
away, — almost without warning. And^ — I lost 
him!^ 

“ ‘Could you not go home? — Nov/?' " 

“ ‘No!' The head moved in sudden brave 
defiance. And then, wearily, ‘There is a sec- 
ond wife. Madam!' Again the sweet voice of 
Mam'selle:" 

“ ‘This father ; — will he come back to 
you?"' 

“ ‘He has promised!' The little woman took 
from her bosom a letter worn and blurred and 
Mam'selle read it. The date was many months 
old. Monsieur." 

“ ‘He loves you,' said Mam'selle simply. 
‘He will return. I am sure he will. I have a 
kinsman there, in those Philippines. We shall 
find that little father, and he will bring the 
ring.' You see Mam'selle's eyes had seen the 
bare hand. Now she turned away and brought 
from her own room — what would you guess. 
Monsieur? Listen! Two nickels which she 
slipped into the hand of the young mother. 
Then seating herself she drew off her shoes — did 
good Mam'selle Delphine!" 

“ ‘Put on these and deliver your work and 
leave the baby with me until you get back ! The 
money is for the cars, — it is too far for you to 
walk even if you had the time.' Mam'selle's 
shoes were poor but neat, — the worn shoes of 
gentility. The stockings she exposed were 
darned, — and Mam'selle's darning was art!" 

— 14 — 


‘‘The poor young woman hesitated a mo- 
ment. You may believe she was amazed and 
bewildered. But then with a great sob she made 
the exchange and gathered up her bundles.'’ 

“ ‘Thank you, Oh! thank you!' It was all 
she could utter, Monsieur, as she hurried away. 
Mam'selle, who remained, knew what was be- 
hind that sob, when the feeble hands of the 
child clutched blindly at her breast. It was 
both ill and starved. Tragedy? Ah, Monsieur! 
only the very poor know tragedy! And it's 
the mother knows it best!" 

“Mam'selle said the moments passed 
slowly. The chill in the room increased and 
the little hands and feet in her lap grew colder. 
Smiling over a thought, some far-a-way dream 
she had buried, it may be, she carried it to her 
own room and her immaculate bed, and added a 
single lump of coal to the little handful in her 
tiny stove, for she must be careful of her store. 
Lulled by the atmosphere of serene peace into 
which it had come and by the familiar lullaby in 
the sweet voice of the dear woman bending 
above it, the child sank into a slumber that was 
almost a coma." 

The speaker planted her last bulb. Now, 
she seated herself on the edge of the slab and as 
she continued her story her hand passed lightly 
and lovingly over the name carved there: a 
hand that bore on the third finger a slender 
band of gold. 

“Then, Monsieur, poor Mam'selle had her bad 
quarter hour. It would be long before the 
mother could return ; and what if she failed in 

— 15 — 


her mission? or if the stores were closed? It 
was now nearly ten o’clock and at twelve, even 
on Christmas eve, in this old city the store doors 
would be locked up. Her faded little purse 
held, now, but five coppers. How were her own 
needs to be supplied ? Her bread and butter for 
next day were gone with the two nickels.” 

“Mam’selle left the last question unanswered. 
She left it to the good God. Returning to the 
empty room she tied the ragged shoes on her 
feet and passed down into the night and the 
snow. Brave? Ah Monsieur, is it wonderful 
that the sons of such women know how to die 
in battle? Around the corner were the thoro- 
fare and the drug store with its place of refresh- 
ment. Hurrying there, she placed her money 
and her glass on the marble and asked for milk. 
You may know it was not for herself. Mam’selle 
made a story of her visit to that store you would 
have liked to hear; — a little clerk in white, 
lifted a milk can from the icebox and shook it ; 
“Aha!” he said, “Behold it is empty! I must go 
to the cellar!” Presto! and he swept her cop- 
pers into the safe harbor of his drawer. Some- 
thing in Mam’selle’s voice, or in her eyes check- 
ed his haste. Maybe it was a message. If it 
were, it reached him and held him there a mo- 
ment. Mon Dieu! how much one moment may 
hold ! Then the big round voice of the Manager 
boomed over the crowd a warning. This is what 
he said:” 

“ Tf you have any more tickets, Messieuers, 
— if you have any more, place them in the box ! 
When the clock strikes the contest closes and 
the drawing begins!’ ” 


— 16 — 


one more!’ shouted back the little 
clerk. And he seized a red printed slip : ‘What 
is your name, — please?’ he said to Mam’selle. 
‘Quick, Madam!’ His pencil was poised, — ‘so.’ 
Ah, the importance of these little men of busi- 
ness ! They keep the wheels moving.” 

“ ‘But — ,’ she began, puzzled and confused 
in such strange scenes. She looked this way and 
that, did Mam’selle.” 

“ ‘It’s a drawing, ma’am ! Every five cent 
purchase obtains you a ticket that goes into the 
box! It’s just a chance,’ oh, he was a wise little 
one: — he did not wish her to hope and then 
suffer the disappointment, — ‘but it’s a chance 
all the same! It’s not a gamble,’ — he meant 
lottery. Monsieur, — ‘it’s a gift! — a Christmas 
gift from the store!’ He was careful to explain 
because she was drawing away and doubt was 
in her face. There is a law against the lottery. 
Thus assured Mam’selle murmured her name, 
spelling it for him and smiling into his upturned 
face. Such a little gentleman !” 

“At last the slip went into the box ; and then 
the hour of ten rang on the city clocks.” 

“And now Mam’selle looked curiously about 
her. Half a life had passed, she told me, since 
she had last stood in a Christmas crowd. The 
store in which she found herself was full of the 
dear, home-loving people, nearly all men, on 
their Christmas fete, buying, raffling, jesting 
under the loosened rein that life, next week, 
would draw tight again. And as she gazed and 
stood there, a stranger to it all, the jolly, laugh- 

— 17 — 


ing face of the Manager rose above the general 
level of heads/’ 

‘Attend!’ he said. ‘The drawing will be of 
the simplest! Short and sweet like my wife!’ 
For he will have his joke, Christmas or no 
Christmas. ‘The young lady here will take her 
hands full of tickets from the box, after I have 
mixed them up thoroughly, and drop them back 
one by one, in sight of all, until but one remains ! 
That ticket wins. Attend! We begin!’ He 
plunged his hands into the tickets. Monsieur, — 
so and so ! — stirring and kneading them with a 
vigor; and then a young girl, Mam’selle Celeste, 
the dream-child, was lifted to the counter and 
the box placed at her feet. As she stood there 
under a cluster of the electric lights, her short 
hair curling loosely around the brow and face 
of exquisite beauty, she seemed to Mam’selle a 
being from the other world. So, she thought, 
would Raphael look — standing at the right 
hand of God. It was a swift but a wonderful 
picture — ^just a flash, and a hush descended as 
it painted itself on the mind, like the sun paints 
in the camera. However the little drawing 
might result, each had received a gift. For it is 
no little thing when the good God paints an 
angel face in the mind. If you have the fever, 
the angel comes and not the devil. And the 
dreams!” 

“It was at this moment. Monsieur, that un- 
seen hands, or so it was whispered around many 
a fireside that Christmas eve, touched the girl 
and in view of all was the miracle. Her hair 
stirring in a little breeze, under the focus of the 

— 18 — 


many lights, became not as hair, at all, but as a 
tremulous halo. that remained, when, standing 
straight, her eyes first on the vacancy and then 
on Mam'selle near the door, she began to drop 
the tickets from her full hands. A great music 

box, the prize of the drawing, gave out a 
melody. Someone had slipped in a record, 
— “Then You'll Remember Me." You have 
heard it, Monseur? Yes? Over the crowd 
and to the heart of Mam'selle came the song 
from the violin of a master borne on the uplift 
of a well touched harp. It came first as a shock 
to Mam'selle, then as a message from her youth. 
What a romance! A voice had sung the song 
for her beneath her boudoir window in the dim, 
dear old years, back in Virginia, the voice of a 

boy, who, soon after, went cheering into the 
eternal silence, under the guns of Gettysburg. 
Here was Mam'selle's one romance, never be- 
fore breathed in memory, even, beyond the con- 
fines of her room, bared now in a public place! 
So it seemed to Mam'selle at first. But no ! The 
music belonged to the crowd; the song was 
hers! The boy was singing to her! The mean- 
ing was for her alone ! Ah, she understood now, 
Monsieur! it was his message at Christmas; — 
love had found a way across the long years and 
out of the great silence. For this had Mam'selle 
been drawn to the desolate room : — for this she 
had read the child's hunger, — had felt the little 
fingers on her breast, — for this she had given 
her last copper. God leads us surely. Monsieur. 
We must shut our eyes and trust. He had called 
her and she had come barefoot through the 
snow. Ah, you should have seen Mam'selle's 
face v/hen her soul was at the window!" 

— 19 — 


“The words arose and flowered in her 
quick appreciation ; — they did not sound. She 
taught me the whole song: 

“When coldness or neglect shall dim 
The lustre of thine eyes, 

And deem it but a faded light 
Within their depths that lies. 

When hollow hearts shall wear a mask 
Twill break thine own to see, 

In such a moment I but ask 
That you'll remember me." 

“Remember him! Remember him! Oh 
God! — Oh God! had she not forgotten all 
else?" The little woman pressed her hands to 
her eyes a moment and bowed her head. Pres- 
ently the mobile face, lit with a smile, was 
lifted. 

“You see. Monsieur, Mam'selle had never 
grown out of the girl she was when that fare- 
well song ascended into her window. The young 
lover was with her through her full blooming 
womanhood and in her fading age, but it was 
always the girl that met him, communed with 
him. In the strange way of the spirit she took 
h>r guidance through him, and through him 
came her comfort. The good God spoke with 
the lips of the boy, and it was always his Anger 
that pointed her verse in the Bible when she 
opened it in blind faith! For with her. Mon- 
sieur, though the marriage had not been re- 
corded on earth, it had been in Heaven, and 
her soldier husband had never died. Ah! here 
was the secret of her serene bearing, her blind 
faith and obedience. And the smile with which 
she faced one world was just the reflected 

— 20 — 


glory of another. Coldness? She had never felt 
it. Neglect? She was not conscious of it. 
Neither had dimmed the lustre of the soft 
brown eyes. Their light would never fail. She 
thought that some day death might gently 
lower a curtain before them; that, or, some 
morn to its lonely home her spirit returning 
through the flower paths of her childhood, 
where it went in dreams, would find the sun had 
not lifted the curtain, and she would just keep 
on where the paths led.'' 

‘‘And the hearts? Ah, her own would 
never break. How could it? The dear Christ- 
child ; — Raphael ;* the hero-lad, — her dream 
husband, standing ever in the moonlight be- 
neath her window, — were, by the strange magic 
of love all blended in one. Monsieur, could the 
heart of any woman break when these were 
her lovers? Never! ‘Remember me?' Re- 
member him! He had been standing that 
night in the spring's last light snow; and she 
had dropped him her roses one by one, holding 
the last, the crimson, to her lips, dropping them 
as Mam'selle Celeste was dropping the painted 
slips. This was the picture in the mind of 
Mam'selle Delphine. 

“Then the strong, booming voice again:" 

“ ‘There are but two left. Messieurs, — but 
two ! Attend ! The young lady will drop one, 
— and the other wins! Hold on to your little 
Saint Josephs!' " 

“Extending both hands^ — so. Monsieur, — 
Mam'selle Celeste suspended the slips, white 
and red, a moment, looked again into the face 

— 21 — 


of Mam’selle Delphine and released the white. 
Then with a pretty gesture, she pressed the red 
one to her lips and let it float down into the 
Manager's hand. Turning it he read: 

‘ “Mam'selle Delphine !' " 

“Mam'selle heard the name, but the song 
in her heart was still vibrant. She v/as listen- 
ing back, not forward. Not so with the little 
man in the white duck, at this moment filling 
her glass with the milk. The name was very 
new in his memory. He stared a moment; and 
then after the fashion of youth that excites eas- 
ily, his emotion leaped in shouts:" 

‘‘That's you, lady! That's you!’ he 
said. Now, he had run around and was shak- 
ing her arm." 

“ ‘What do you mean — ?' said Mam'selle, 
indignant, pushing off his hands. The scene 
swam as consciousness of her surroundings re- 
turned and she found herself, she, Mam'selle 
Delphine, the centre of attention. Nothing 
like this notoriety had happened in all her long 
life." 

“ ‘You've won the prize! It's yours!' they 
all cried out. The men nearest were regarding 
her with curiosity. Some, in the spirit of Christ- 
mas, offered felicitations. Frightened, she drew 
farther away, but before she could escape, the 
Manager was by her side explaining that the 
great music box was her property, — ^that, and 
the records. The last ticket placed in the box 
had won." 

“‘But I, — why, what can I do with it?’ 
she faltered. You see she was not of com- 


— 22 — 


merce. Ah, but then the last actor in this 
drama staged by the good God, entered on the 
scene. A quiet man he was, with the ease that 
comes of birth and success, whose glance had 
in its first flash read Mam'selle's helplessness 
and poverty in her dear little bare head and her 
half bared angel feet. He came quickly to her 
side. 

‘‘ ‘What,’ he inquired of the Manager, ‘is the 
selling price of the instrument?’ 

“ ‘That size, — and the records, seventy dol- 
lars. Ha!’ 

“ ‘Mam'selle Delphine,’ he said, ‘I am Doc- 
tor Marshall. I offer you seventy dollars for 
your prize. Do you wish to sell it?’ He 
stretched forth his hand and steadied her, for 
she began to waver. The shock had been great, 
Mam’selle’s lips moved, but he only caught the 
words, ‘Oh, ye of little faith.’ Just a whisper. 
He told me Mam’selle did not seem to see him; 
and truly she was looking on another scene, and 
her face was full of the beauty that is youth 
itself. Indeed, Monsieur, youth had for one 
moment flowered again for Mam’selle Del- 
phine.’ 

“ ‘What is it, Mam’selle?’ he said, wait- 
ing:” 

“ ‘I was thinking of when Christ talked to 
them,’ said Mam’selle, — don’t you remember?’ 
She touched his arm with her thin white hand. 
Mam’selle had forgotten that she did not know 
this new man standing so grave and polite by 
her side. He did not seem a stranger to her 

— 23 — 


when she saw the soft, dim light stealing into 
his eyes. Hers was the response of kind to 
kind. Now he was speaking again, because of 
a sudden he understood, — ^this grand, good 
man, our Doctor Marshall." 

" ‘You are not strong,' he said, — ‘come, my 
car is at the door; if you are through with the 
shopping, let me take you home? Are there 
any packages?' He was gently urging her to 
the door as he spoke.‘' 

“ ‘Ah yes ! the milk ! the milk ! Quick, — I 
must go !' Believe me, Mam'selle was now in a 
panic! He took the milk and guided her into 
his car despite her protests. 

And soon, above the babe they found cry- 
ing in its hunger and loneliness, but quick to 
grow quiet with warmed milk, the Doctor heard 
the life story of Mam'selle Delphine told in 
little pieces. His perfect appreciation filled it 
in; — she was driftwood from that dear old 
South of song and story blown on strange 
shores. He knew of others, but none that ap- 
pealed as she. Proud, Monsieur, with the pride 
of the truly fine, strong in the faith that cannot 
falter, she was living out her life, every new 
floodtide leaving her farther on the desolate 
sands. A grand nephew in the Philippines, 
her kinsman in the soul as well as in the blood, 
had offered to share with her his small salary, 
— enough to pay her room rent, but she would 
have none of it. Her delicate hands, invoking 
an art that was once a grace, and the little 
French and Spanish she taught, brought the lit- 
tle she needed; but no more.'' 

— 24 — 


“Mam^selle soon placed her masterful vis- 
itor. He had heard of 'her people' from his 
mother. And when a girl in Virginia she had 
known some Marshalls and there were Mar- 
shalls from way down South who used to come 
up to see them; — his grandfather? Ah! how 
small a world it is, after all, Monsieur! She 
herself had been a shuttlecock of fate. A Ver- 
ginia bride had gone into the far South, to 
sleep, after a year, by her Creole husband, 
under the trailing moss of the live oaks. Yellow 
fever! The babe she left had gone back to the 
grandmother to remain till the dream of one 
and the life of the other went out. And then 
the girl, nursing h^r vision, her romance, her 
memories and her invisible children at a virgin 
breast drifted back to her father's people in the 
South and through long years into the present. 
‘Ah, Monsieur! 'tis well we have only the 
five senses; we touch life too close, sometimes, 
as it is!' " 

“Mam'selle had been offered a home in 
many places and some offers she had accepted 
because she could give value for what she re- 
ceived. But again death would steal in; or 
business reverses; or marriages, and removals. 
One cannot stand still! The refuges for such 
as she? Well, Mam'selle could never quite 
gain her own consent. Just why, she was not 
able to say. She had been, in the sight of 
heaven, a hero's bride ; she must not forget that. 
One cannot tell what is behind the curtain or 
how far back into life the dead may look. If 
she were in a refuge, she would feel his eyes 
upon her and his sadness." 

— 25 — 


‘'No, a soldier’s wife must be brave ! How 
could her spirit, grown weak and cowardly, 
mate with the spirit of her soldier? No, she 
must take to him the spirit of a brave girl, not 
that of a weak old woman. Monsieur knows 
that was the way to talk to Doctor Marshall. 
What gentleman fails to salute the dauntless 
woman!” 

“But, Monsieur, when the tired mother re- 
turned, she found them bound up in their new 
friendship, and the baby in its snug harbor. It 
was not seriously ill, the Doctor assured her. 
And he would send medicine in the morning. 
Ah, but she was startled when he added that 
unless it had good nourishment and a month of 
nursing it might die.” 

“Again it was Mam’selle who brought 
back hope!” 

“ ‘Look’, she said, extending her hands 
full of money, ‘seventy dollars ! Is it not won- 
derful? Ah, we shall have a happy Christmas 
after all, — you and I and the baby!’” The 
young woman paused. Again her hands were 
pressed to her eyes. Again, the lifted face and 
radiant smile : “ ‘Many of them, perhaps,’ said 
the Doctor, ‘Many of them.’ And then, — what 
would you think. Monsieur? — this: ‘We have 
been talking it over, Mam’selle Delphine and 
I. In my hospital for children I have need for 
her. We shall, — let me think, — we shall make 
her ‘mother’ of the colony, — yes, I am sure we 
shall. We need just this atmosphere of home, 
— a delightful little room like this, — furniture 
and all, where the children may come and tell 

— 26 — 


their troubles and be petted and spoiled. 
Mam’selle/ he said with his wonderful smile, 
‘you wished to continue young? Yes? Well, 
the fountain of youth is youth itself. You 
shall bathe daily in the fountain of youth! And 
you' — he turned now to the other, considering: 
— and she, poor little sufferer, looked up at him 
eagerly, and then away from his searching eyes, 
— ‘You shall learn nursing, — if you will. You 
shall be our little sister; — sister of all who 
know sorrow and pain. Good night, — and a 
happy Christmas!'" 

“ ‘I shall like that, — a chance to do,' said 
Mam'selle, her face shining as for the moment 
her hand lay in his." 

“‘A chance to undo! — give me that!’ said 
the little mother." 

“ ‘Good', he said, touching her bowed 
head as he passed, ‘good! I like that. You 
shall have your chance.' " 

“Ah, but when he was gone, this mother, 
this little forsaken mother, knelt long with 
breast above and arms around the sleeping 
child, not hiding it now, but consecrating it with 
tears of a good woman, — its first baptism. 
Monsieur, this man, this holy man, this dear 
Mam'selle Delphine, — the angel woman, — 
saved a soul there and then with the beautiful 
name ‘sister', and gave a little manchild his 
chance in life." 

“But Mam'selle stood silent by the window 
while the clock rang in the new day, looking 
down into the snow with her bright eyes. The 
face she saw there, she told me long afterwards, 

— 27 — 


was that of the young martyr whose country 
called him away to sleep in an unknown grave. 
Through all the years a thought had repeated 
itself in Mam'selle's consciousness: — if only it 
could have been! if only life had given the 
brave boy to her arms, indeed and in truth! — 
If only she had been a bride, a wife, perhaps 
then the tragedy of her life might not have been 
written in loneliness! Oh, the vain dreams of 
motherhood! And oh! Monsieur, do the spirits 
of little children knock at the hearts of lonely 
women? I think they must, indeed. I wish 
you could have heard Mam'selle tell the rest. 
The other was watching; ‘Mamselle', she said, 
*it is time you slept. What shall I do? — my 
baby?— ^ 

‘‘ 'Your baby!’ said Mam’selle, ‘your baby?’ 
With hands, oh so strong of a sudden on the 
young mother’s shoulders, she turned her 
gently toward the child : 'Not your baby, now, 
but ours! You are to sleep there by it!’ ” 

"'On your bed?’ The eyes of the two 
women met. So much depended!” 

" 'Why not? Are you not, now, my little 
sister? — my little sister?’ Her dear lips lin- 
gered on the name and longer on the girl’s 
brow. Then she turned quickly back to the 
window, while the other lay and waited. But 
not to sleep. Mam’selle was old and might 
need help. So she watched through half shut 
eyes. She saw Mam’selle, at length, sink to 
her knees and lift her face to the winter stars, 
and she heard her whispered prayer. It 
meant, that prayer, that all she had to give was 

— 28 — 


the sanctity, the purity of her room, and she 
had given it to the woman of the street and the 
soiled little one in the whiteness of her bed. 
For the first time she was in touch with the un- 
clean.'* 

‘‘And then she came to her Bible and 
opened it and placing a finger blindly on a 
verse, read, half aloud in broken words: — 
‘there came a woman having an alabaster box 
of ointment of spikenard very precious; and 
she brake the box, and poured it on his head, 
— and Jesus said. Let her alone — ^she hath done 
what she could.' " 

“The young woman arose hurriedly and 
threw herself on her knees with her arms 
around the thin limbs of her new friend, cry- 
ing:' 

“ ‘If I could have found you sooner, — if I 
could have found you sooner, it might not have 
been! — but — ^the stain! — the stain! — " Ah, 
the dear Mam'selle, the saint on earth! Her 
voice was like the summer wind dying out in 
Bayou Teche — Wait, Monsieur, till you hear 
her words: — they came in whispers:" 

“ ‘Listen — little sister, — I am two women 
in one, — and one of them is you! But the 
other stands firm! Look up, she will not fail 
you. We go from here to a place where there 
is suifering, — sometimes, death. We shall be 
of use. We shall do God's work! We shall 
live for others! Stretch out your hands to Him, 
my dear ; — if they are stained the first kiss of a 
dying child will cleanse them! ‘As ye have 

— 29 — 


done it unto the least of these, ye have done it 
unto me!' ’’ 

‘‘Monsieur, it was the voice of Heaven! 
The other woman seized Mam'selle's hand 

“ ‘Do you believe that? Do you?' she 
said. ‘You are not just saying it? Can God 
turn the years back? — " 

“‘Hush!' said Mam'selle, ‘oh hush! Turn 
back the years? Why, the lines are gone from 
your face! — the bitterness, — the rebellion! And 
your eyes that were dim with sorrow are shin- 
ing like twilight stars over Galilee! For you, 
God has already turned back the years!" 



— 30 — 


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